


Do Worms Have Feelings?

by clevelandy



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Emo Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, First Meetings, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Himbo! Simon, Human Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, If you squint you'll see some cottagecore, Like so much, M/M, Meet-Cute, Not Canon Compliant, Online Friendship, Online Relationship, POV Third Person, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Yearning, carry on exchange, carry on summer exchange, email fic, like baz just wont shut up, this is the first fic ive ever written where simon doesn't have wings and a tail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clevelandy/pseuds/clevelandy
Summary: Baz Pitch has nothing written on his wrist. Which is fine. Except, it's really not.Or, the one where Simon sends a lot of stupid emails.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 32
Kudos: 308
Collections: Carry_On_Summer_Exchange_2020





	Do Worms Have Feelings?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! This fic was written as a gift for [flammable-pitch](https://flammable-pitch.tumblr.com/) for the Carry On Summer Gift Exchange! Her request was a "soulmate au." This is sort of an anti-soulmate soulmate au, but y'know. I hope you like it!!!!
> 
> Thank you to [nic](https://coexchange.tumblr.com/) for organizing this event!! Also, thank you so much to my scrumptious betas [Bri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrimoniousGoat/profile), [caity ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug), and [jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adamarks/pseuds/Adamarks)

Baz Pitch has nothing written on his wrist.

It’s not an issue or anything. It’s fine. 

Granted, everyone in his family has a word written on their wrist. All his friends have words. Every barber, dentist, and professor he’s ever met has had one. It’d be easy to feel left out. 

But, like, it’s fine. He doesn’t feel left out. 

It’s been a little embarrassing to see his siblings receive their words. It’s an early process, probably because many people seem to meet their soulmates early in life. Most people get their word on their skin by the time they turn 10, if not earlier. Mordelia had a cursive “hey” written on the side of her arm by the time she turned four. Unoriginal, but at least it’s something. The twins don’t have fully formed words yet, but they both have faint black marks on their hands- the delicate slopes of letters preparing to rise from under their skin. 

Not that it bothers him. He doesn’t feel jealous of them. He hasn’t had nightmares of stealing the ink from his siblings’ skin. 

The words written on his family’s skin, on everyone’s skin, is the first word or words which one’s soulmate is destined to say to them. It’s usually placed on the wrist, though others find their markings further down their arms. Everyone has one though.

Almost everyone.

It’s a messy system, Baz realizes. Perhaps because he has the privilege of watching it from the outside. So many people have “ow” written on their wrists. They must live in absolute terror. There are support groups for people with “Hi, how can I help you?”’s and political campaigns to outlaw the word “Hello.” 

It must be hard to know that your soulmate is out there but not know where or when you might meet them. Just because someone meets their soulmate doesn’t mean they’ll end up with them. 

Baz, at least, knows he’ll never meet his soulmate at all. In fact, he knows he doesn’t have one. He almost takes solace in it; the ups and downs of awaiting one’s soulmate seem exhausting. He’d seen it on his friend’s faces- the expectation, followed by the immediate disappointment when the new guy didn’t say the _right_ word. At least he doesn’t have to live through that. There’s no roller-coaster path of his pain. 

It’s more of a minecart, traveling through the depths of his despair.

But like. It’s _fine_. 

There’s no support group for people with _nothing_ written on their wrist. He’s looked for them online, just to see if anyone else was like him (then deleted his search history despite living alone). There aren’t any because _everyone_ has something written on them- even people who aren’t interested in romantic relationships. Platonic soulmates, he’s heard.

Baz is _absolutely_ interested in romantic relationships. There’s nothing he wants more than to have someone. 

So, in all honesty, it’s absolutely not fine at all. 

Not that he’d ever tell anyone that. Pitying eyes are even worse than the blank stare of his unmarked skin. He's very familiar with the gaze of both. 

When people ask about his bare flesh he generally tries to change the subject. If he can’t evade the question he tells them he doesn’t have one because he doesn’t _want_ one. It’s a shocking enough statement that people generally stop asking questions after that.

(Like, why would anyone want an ideal partner? Why would anyone want someone to love and be loved by? Why would you want something on your arm that tells you when you meet the person that you’d have the perfect relationship with? Gross shit.)

As far as his friends and family are concerned, Baz is fine with his stagnant dating life (or, that he refuses to talk about it. Same difference). He isn’t sure how people manage to date someone who isn’t their soulmate. Companionship, he supposes, or the fear that they might not realize that they’ve already met their soulmate. Regardless, he couldn’t imagine dating someone and knowing, deep down, that they’re waiting for the person to sweep them away from him. What’s worse is _he_ wouldn’t have anyone to wait for.

So he doesn’t date. Or talk about it. Or think about it. 

In secret, his romanticism is directed elsewhere. He reads romance novels, watches movies about love, and writes fanfiction about people just _loving_ each other. Nobody on the internet knows that his soulmate isn’t coming, but they do know that far too many of his AU’s revolve around a society without soulmates. In his fics, people meet and have no idea if they’re meant to be together- in fact, they _aren’t_ meant to be together. They stay together because they _want_ to be together.

Most people see it as an interesting concept, Baz sees them as his place to escape. 

He lounges in his bed, reading through his comments to wind him down for bed (as he often does). Just as he prepares to set his phone down a notification appears on his screen, informing him of an email sent to his fan account.

> **11:34 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Do worms have feelings? Like. Emotions. But, also, do they feel stuff? Like. Would it feel it if u tickled it? R worms ticklish???_

Baz blinks the growing sleep from his eyes, sitting up in his bed to make sure he’s really awake. He had to have read that wrong. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with his fic. 

But no, it’s right there. “Do worms have feelings?”

What kind of stupid fucking question...

Baz instinctively begins to flick his thumb to the left to trash the message, but he pauses. He frowns at his screen, holding the message steady as it hovers just over the trash bin, before sliding his thumb back, allowing it to steady in his inbox.

It didn’t look like it was spam. Besides, he had a spam-blocker on. It appeared to be an email from a real person.

He taps the upper corner to open the email address.

> **_Footballbitch@gmail.com - would you like to add this contact to your address book?_ **

Oh, Baz thinks, sinking back down into the plush of his bed, they meant to send it to themself. He taps ‘reply.’

> **11:36 pm**
> 
> **Footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Good evening,_
> 
> _I believe you sent this message to me by mistake. We have very similar email addresses._
> 
> _Kind regards,_
> 
> _-B_

The ‘schloop’ sound comes from his phone, confirming that his email had been sent. Baz stares at his phone for a second, waiting for a response.

Nothing comes, so Baz places his phone back on his nightstand and promptly falls asleep.

-

> **6:37 am**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Penny was wrong. Expired milk does not make you sick. Even if you chug it._

Baz squints at it, then tosses his phone away. Maybe they hadn’t seen his response yet. If he ignores the emails then they’ll probably stop. 

Plus, it’s too early to worry about it. 

-

He’s wrong. The next day he receives:

> **5:32 am**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com:**
> 
> _Today I was cutting my toenails and one of them hit me in the eye :(_

This one is sent even earlier, but Baz had learned from the night before and turned off his notifications. Still, even when Baz wakes and reads it with fresh eyes, it’s a stupid email. It’s clearly not intended for him. So, he ignores it.

Then, the next day...

> **9:24 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Saw a dog outside. Wanted to keep it. Realized too late it was a coyote :( Almost got lost in the woods._
> 
> And the day after that...

> **3:47 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I clogged the toilet today. Then the plunger broke. Penny said if I did this again I’d have to move out so I think this is the end._

By the fourth day, Baz finds himself _waiting_ for the email. He sits through classes and work, fingers drumming against any hard surface to keep from pulling out his phone. The emails are never sent at the same time, so it’s hard to say if there would be one waiting for him after he gets out of his shift. 

It shouldn’t be as gripping as it is. The messages are absurd. But, they make him laugh. The minor, stupid misfortunes of a stranger feel like a daily comedic horoscope.

Or maybe he’s just lonely.

He hurries out of the building at the end of his shift, tugging his phone from his pocket as he does. There are two notifications: a text from his landlord and _an email_.

Baz stops himself from reading it- it’ll feel much more satisfying to see the tomfoolery in the comfort of his own home. He pockets his phone and picks up the pace.

It’s a short walk across campus from the bookstore to his shoebox of an apartment. The second he’s safe at home his phone is out in his hands again. He leans against his front door and scans the message. 

> **9:29 am**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I tripped walking out of the house today. A cute neighbor saw me. I’m not their soulmate, but it was still embarrassing._

He hadn’t responded to the emailer in a few days, but he found himself wanting to again. Maybe it was because he had been anticipating the email for so long, but he wanted to have a conversation with this mystery person. It also could’ve been because they mentioned soulmates. For someone who didn’t like to talk about it, Baz was constantly being attracted to the topic.

Receiving all these emails has, somehow, become something that Baz has attached himself to. He’s aware of his melodramatics in waking every day and grabbing for his phone, but he can’t help it. 

There’s also a strange burning in his stomach when Baz thinks about the emailer having a soulmate. He wonders if he’s jealous of them for having a soulmate, or if he’s upset at the idea of somebody else getting the full footballbitch picture when he is left with only the occasional email. These thoughts, he realizes, are the jealous tendencies of a madman. They’ve never even had a _conversation_.

Regardless of the reason, Baz finds his thumbs flying.

> **8:59 pm**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I’m sorry to hear that. Also, you’re still emailing the wrong person._
> 
> _-B_

There’s no response, but there is a twinge of disappointment in Baz’s chest when he realizes he won’t be getting one again. Even more so when he realizes that responding might’ve stopped the emailer from their daily spiels by insisting that they’re emailing the wrong person.

He throws himself into his homework for the evening and tries to ignore feeling like he lost something.

But the next day, he receives:

> **7:30 am**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I’m tired of those Sonic commercials. Sonic isn’t even good_

So, he responds again, reminding himself silently that footballbitch is a _stranger._

> **11:22 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Wrong person still. Also, Sonic is good. Have you ever had their slushies???_
> 
> _-B_

The emails continue like that for weeks: the emailer monologuing followed by Baz’s unrecognized comments. It’s a strange sort of relationship- if one could call it a relationship at all. But, it makes Baz happy.

If Baz had a therapist, that therapist would probably tell Baz that his bare skin gave him low self-esteem. That he spent so much time convincing himself that, because he doesn’t have a mark, that he doesn’t deserve a fulfilling relationship of any kind. It’s why he doesn’t date, or maintain great friendships, or tell his family how he feels. It’s also why he clings to every word that footballbitch says. 

But Baz doesn’t have a therapist. So there is no change in this cycle. And cling he does.

Baz is certainly a busy person, so it’s not like he has time to analyze every message. Still, he rereads each one. He wonders what kind of person could be sending out such ridiculous emails into the world without regard for who reads them. He double-glances at every person on the street. He wonders what the hell ‘footballbitch’ means. 

Worst of all, it feels sort of like a crush. 

Therapist or not, Baz knows it’s ridiculous. Footballbitch could be a murderer. So he tries to limit himself, picking up extra shifts at the bookstore to keep from ogling over the emails or responding to every single one. 

Until one day, when Baz gets an email which simply can't be ignored.

> **8:16 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Do you think cows like farmers? Dairy cows. I mean. Meat cows probably don’t._

A grin spreads across his face. It’s just so stupid. He’d love to meet someone as stupid as whoever is sending his emails. They’d probably make him smile.

> **8:17 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _No, I don’t think cows like farmers. I imagine milking isn’t very comfortable._
> 
> _Also, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re_ still _sending me these emails. I don’t think they’re intended for me._
> 
> _-B_

He sets his phone down on the chair he was sitting on while turning to enter the closet his landlord calls a kitchen. There’s no reason for him to assume that they’d email him back now. 

Except, then his phone rings. And he practically dives across the room to grab it

> **8:18 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Ok but like. The farmer feeds them. Don’t u think the cows would be grateful?_
> 
> **8:20pm**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Not more grateful than you’d be to a prison guard who served you your meals._
> 
> _Also, in this estimation, you’re clearly imagining a small farm with a few cows in a barn. While our society, and the milk and eggs industry, want us to believe that this is the case, it is actually far more industrialized. Factory farms make up the vast majority of our dairy supply, meaning that the cows you’re imagining aren’t being cared for by old McDonald, but instead are packed in a facility to maximize productivity (and cruelty). So no, I don’t think the cows like the “farmers,” or, factory workers_
> 
> _Also, I don’t think that cows are capable of the complex emotions you’re granting them._
> 
> _-B_

The next reply comes 27 minutes later. 

> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Oh :(_

Baz curses aloud. He had been pacing in his apartment between responses, but now he plops down on his couch. There’s no real way to respond to that. A one-word answer is the killer of many conversations. He probably said too much; scared the emailer off. 

But then his phone pings again. 

> **8:48 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I looked up factory farms. Now I wanna b vegan. Thanks a lot._
> 
> _Anyway I think cows probably do have feelings. Like a dog. Sometimes dogs are happy and sometimes they are sad. And you can tell, you know?_
> 
> **8:50pm**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _How old are you?_
> 
> _-B_
> 
> **8:51 pm**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _22\. Why? How old r u?_
> 
> **8:52 pm**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> 23.
> 
> -B
> 
> **8:53 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _So we’re about the same!_
> 
> **8:53 pm**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Anyway, thanks for letting me know. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight :)_

Baz stares at his phone for a long while after responding to the final email. 

He can’t help but feel that this conversation changed something. Maybe it’s just the excitement of talking to a stranger. Maybe he won’t even respond in the morning.

He goes to sleep and dreams of cows.

-

> **6:24 am**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Good morning!_
> 
> _What’s your name?_
> 
> _Also, are_ all _cows held in factory-farms? Like, I feel like I’ve driven past normal farms before._
> 
> _-Simon_

_-_

The following weeks are a whirl of work, school, and emails. When Baz isn’t busy with something else, he’s sending or reading emails. He wakes up every morning excited for a new one, and he doesn’t go to sleep until he’s said goodnight. 

He learns that Simon lives about 20 minutes away with his friend Penelope and he works as a mechanic. Simon is passionate about food and action movies and he likes to bake in his free time. 

But he also learns about Simon- not just facts about him. He learns that Simon has a lot of questions about the world, that he grew up in foster care and never had a consistent parent to learn from. He learns that it’s hard for Simon to communicate, but that writing emails feels less daunting. He also learns, one late evening, about how alone Simon feels. 

> **11:45pm**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Do you ever feel lonely? Sometimes I just feel like nobody really understands me. Like there’s nobody who wants to see past the surface._

Baz could imagine Simon, curled up in bed, with his phone in his hand and a melancholy little look on his face. Simon had sent Baz selfies (and Baz had sent some in return). He felt weird about saving the pictures that Simon sent him, but he found himself searching for the images in his inbox on more than one occasion. Often enough that he could picture Simon’s face when he closed his eyes. 

He was curled up in bed too, which is maybe why he imagined Simon in bed. He sighed and hugged a pillow to his chest. 

> **11:46 pm**
> 
> **Baz**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballbitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Yes, sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. But I’m sure that won't last- isn’t your soulmate the one who is supposed to understand you best? I’m sure you’ll find them eventually._
> 
> _-B_

He had to stop himself from tacking on a “and I’ll be here for you in the meantime. I might not totally understand, but I’d like to learn.” That was far too intimate for an online friend. He’d never met someone that he was willing to be a place-holder for. It made him a little nauseous. 

> **11:50pm**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry, I’m just in a little bit of a mood._

Baz tries not to feel irritated- it’s not Simon’s fault that _his_ loneliness will be temporary, but it’s hard to separate the two facts. It’s not Simon’s fault that the idea of him with a soulmate is, perhaps, the most horrific thing Baz could think of. 

_That’s okay_ , Baz responds, _I get it_. And then he signs off to go to bed. 

-

> **7:39 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Good morning Baz! Have a good day in class today._
> 
> **1:29 PM**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Hey. Is everything okay?_
> 
> **6:49 pm**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I hope you’re doing okay._
> 
> **10:36 pm**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Sorry if I’m bothering you. I’m just worried something happened_
> 
> **10:38 pm**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Oh jeez now I’m sending too many emails. Sorry about that. I hope you’re having a good night_
> 
> **1:32 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _I’m sorry, Simon. I left my phone at home. I hope you’re sleeping well and I’ll talk to you tomorrow._
> 
> **1:32 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Hi Baz!_
> 
> **1:33 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _You’re still up? It’s so late. Are you okay?_
> 
> **1:33 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Yes! I’m okay._
> 
> **1:34 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _Are you sure? You can talk to me. You’re never up this late._
> 
> **1:35 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I just couldn’t sleep.I’m okay, though._
> 
> **1:35 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _Why can’t you sleep?_
> 
> **1:36 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I’ve just been thinking about stuff :)_

That didn’t sound like Simon. Sometimes Simon falls asleep mid-sentence. Once Simon fell asleep while they were FaceTiming (something they had only achieved twice, as Baz couldn’t handle the way Simon’s eyes on him made him flush). Baz got a closeup of a puddle of drool on his pillow (and he may or may not have put the phone on his own pillow, and listened to his breathing until Simon’s phone died).

> **1:37 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _Like what?_
> 
> **1:39 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _You, mostly._

Simon had said offhandedly flirtatious things before- compliments on Baz’s selfies, telling Baz how much he liked talking to him. It always made Baz fluster and say something awkward in response. The comments were always so casual, so minimal, that Baz was convinced that he imagined it every time. So, he usually tried to ignore it. It’s not like he was actually flirting, and, if he was, it's not like he could encourage it.

He also ignored all the times Simon told him he wanted to meet him. He couldn’t stand to sit in the same room, knowing that he could never be with Simon. He wasn’t that much of a masochist. 

It was hard to ignore him staying up late at night _thinking about Baz._

And all because he had been too ashamed to respond to his messages throughout the day. Because Simon had a soulmate, and he didn't. 

Baz chews on his lower lip, staring at the screen. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment before he settles on a message- one to settle Simon (without turning him down. He’d die before stopping Simon from flirting with him. _Simon._ Flirting with _him_ ). 

> **1:45 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _Thinking about me? This late? Strange to think you’re to that point after emailing me on accident._
> 
> _You never did explain why you emailed me at first._
> 
> **1:46 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _Well, I started out using it as a sort of diary. Then you started responding. I thought it might be some sort of soulmate shit._
> 
> **1:46 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _That’s daft. Who’s ever heard of their soulmate emailing them._
> 
> **1:48 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _No. I didn’t think you were my soulmate. That’d be pretty stupid. Otherwise, I’d have like, your first email written on my wrist._
> 
> _Idk I just thought like. Haven’t you ever seen those movies where soulmates reveal themselves in different ways? Like, not just words on your wrist. I love those things. I kinda wanted to believe that it was one of those. Like, you were a bot, sending me things that my soulmate said. I guess I never thought you’d be like. An actual person. I mean, I’m glad ur an actual person, because I like talking to you. But like. It was just stupid._
> 
> _Anyway. You're such a dick that I realized you're an actual person. No bot is gonna lecture me about the dairy industry._

That gives Baz pause, a strange twinge in his chest. He licks his lips and starts typing again. 

> **1:52 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _That is stupid. I told you multiple times that you were emailing the wrong PERSON. Plus, don’t you already have a soulmate on your wrist? Why do you need someone to send you emails to further supplement that?_

> **1:52 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I don’t have one._
> 
> **1:55 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _What do you mean you don’t have one?_
> 
> **1:55 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I mean I don’t have one._
> 
> **1:58 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _One_ what?

The next email has no accompanying text and instead is just an image. A man’s arm, flipped over so Baz can see the underside. It’s paler than the top of his arm; he can see from the way it’s tilted. There are a few scattered freckles on the inside of his arm. Baz frowns his confusion out at the screen. There’s nothing there. What is he showing Baz?

Oh.

There’s _nothing_ there. 

He’s staring at the arm still when the next message pops up.

> **2:06 am**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> _I wasn’t born with one. I kept expecting to get one but it never came. So I guess I just don’t have a soulmate._

There’s a little shrug emoji at the end of the message. Baz is on his laptop, so it doesn’t translate well, but he knows what the blurred image is supposed to be. He knows what Simon is trying to convey. He’s felt the same consistent and unwavering hopelessness that can’t be expressed fully in words, so instead is diminished and ignored in the conversation. I don’t want pity, the shrug says, but yes, it hurts.

Or maybe he’s reading too much into it. 

> **2:15 am**
> 
> **footballpitch@gmail.com**
> 
> **To**
> 
> **Simon**
> 
> _I want to meet you in person._

-

“Hey,” Simon says, a nervous little smile on his face as he stands up to greet him. He’s wearing dark-washed jeans and a soft brown sweater. 

Baz wonders if he should hug him, but Simon just claps a hand on his shoulder. That makes sense- they just met. 

He’s shorter than Baz expected him to be. Same guy he saw in the pictures, but shorter than Baz. Compact. Short enough that he has to tilt his head back just slightly to look Baz in the eye. It’s sort of cute.

“Hey,” Baz responds, voice rattling in his throat. There’s something satisfying about the insignificance of their words; people don’t just greet each other like that anymore. Meeting someone new always coincides with a funky enough phrase that it’d be discernible from other greetings. This isn’t that. They’re just saying hello. It’s not a big deal, and yet, it feels monumental. It’s something only they can do. 

They decided to meet at a Starbucks, so the next few moments are an awkward sidling to follow each other to the line. Public location, something to drink while they talk, it's all good first date etiquette for someone you met online, Baz thinks. Actually, Baz isn’t sure it is a date. He thinks he’d like it to be one, especially now that he sees Simon in person. Maybe he doesn’t have a soulmate and he’ll end up alone, but he can appreciate a nice arse. 

Simon doesn’t have a soulmate either. Maybe…

He swallows down the thought with a shake of his head. It’s not fair to assume. It’s not like they’re soulmates- he won’t just want to date him at random. Simon pays for Baz’s drink. 

“So,” Simon begins, a comically big grin on his face when they make it back to their table. “It’s really nice to finally meet you. What convinced you to-”

“I have to tell you something,” Baz blurts, and Simon looks taken aback. Literally- he jerks his chin back.

“Okay.”

Baz swallows, and lifts his arm, twisting it to reveal the sensitive underside.

“What,” Simon laughs immediately, the corners of his eyes scrunching up, “Do you have ‘hey?’ I don’t think I can be your- ” He pauses, eyes opening wider. They scan up and down his arm, looking for a sign that isn’t there. 

Baz jerks a little as Simon immediately gets up and takes his wrist in his hand. He holds it between two fingers, placing his palm under Baz’s arm as he turns it, inspecting his skin. People around the shop are watching them, eyes narrowing at the two. They probably look like they’re comparing or revealing soulmates, instead of lack thereof. In recent years it’s been deemed poor manners to discuss the markings in public- precautions for the sensitive common-word holders. It’s something you’re supposed to discuss behind closed doors and reveal only when the time is right. 

Baz doesn’t stop him, though. His hands are warm. Rough, though holding him gently. 

“You don’t…” Simon starts, suddenly too close to Baz’s face.

He has freckles. Baz noticed them in the pictures, but now he can see even the smallest, palest ones scattered across Simon’s nose. Delicate, meaningless tattoos placed by the ink of an unwitting star. Simon’s markings may not be evidence of his destiny in a traditional sense, but they reveal his body’s eagerness to hold onto something. Baz would like to touch them (with his lips), and maybe add himself to the constellation.

He shakes his head.

Simon makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a hum and sits back down with a thoughtful expression across his face. He’s still holding Baz’s wrist in his hand- probably doesn’t even notice it. Baz isn’t going to tell him. He’s grateful for a touch without the searing, all-consuming closeness of his body.

“Anywhere?” Simon asks, pulling Baz out of his thoughts of skin touching skin.

“Huh?”

“It’s not on your arse or something?” His expression is sincere enough to pull Baz out of his head. He sneers on instinct and has to fight the instinct to pull his arm away from Simon. He’s been asked that before. Never by a person he’s been interested in though. Or by a person, the only person maybe, who could potentially love him without the restraint of a future soulmate.

He sighs, trying to push the overthinking from his head. They’ve only just met. 

“It’s not on my arse,” He says tiredly. Like he could ever be tired of Simon.

“Have you ever looked? They get misplaced sometimes.”

“Have _you_ looked?”

“Hell yeah. Checked every nook and cranny,” He giggles now and Baz can’t help but smile. His voice goes a little softer then, as his eyes dip down to the table. “I have a friend with one on her leg. I went home and inspected my whole body when I realized that was possible- nothing there, though.”

“Yes,” he sighs then, “I’ve checked too.” 

Simon hums then, nodding as he rubs a thumb over Baz’s pulse. He wonders if he can feel it speed up.

“So you don’t have a soulmate.”

“No,” Baz grumbles, looking away. Just because Simon doesn’t have one doesn’t make the topic suddenly easy. Just because he can _picture_ growing old together and forming a loving relationship because they _chose_ to doesn’t mean that it’s actually going to happen.

“And neither do I,” Simon muses, his words placed intentionally slow. He looks up at Baz then, eyes clear. 

“Okay.”

Simon is quiet for a moment. Then:

“Would you like to get dinner with me?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! come say hi to me on [tumblr!!](https://motherscarf.tumblr.com/)


End file.
